Knowledge of the Late and the Slow
by craig-mccormick
Summary: Kenny is a reckless teenager, aching to live life to the fullest before he's yanked into death. And when death comes, he's only dropped into the life of "Angel Boy", where he lives and dies by the cheers of the audience. When Tammy can't handle Kenny's self-destruction anymore, he promises her he won't leave her side. If only he had a say in the matter.
1. Calluses

**A/N: Rated M for blood and gross shit, and maybe the language. My interpretation of a circus freak might be way off (and I know it is haha), but I just did this for fun~ So if there are any inaccuracies, I know about them too xD**

**if you see any spelling mistakes, tell me and I'll be sure to try and fix it~!**

**also thanks to Lamby for motivating me to work on this fic~ She's great, yo**

**Thank you for reading- I hope you like it!**

* * *

_Beyond the sea blue light_  
_I met the love of my life_  
_She'd rather see me dead than face me_  
_I like your starry eyes_  
_They yell, "Surprise, surprise!"_  
_I'm in love, but not for long_

* * *

I always wake up, staring at the same moldy ceiling

Hearing the same bickering between my parents

With the same unfinished homework sprawled across my floor

Sometimes I cry. Other times I'm just annoyed with having to get out of bed. But most of the time, I manage to drag myself out and get ready for the day. The sun leaking through the tattered bed sheet that doubled as a curtain tinted the room to a dull green to match the fabric, I stumble from my blankets and get my shit together. Or at least—There is an attempt. The process of waking up is always intertwined with trying to ruffle though my many deaths, wondering how I went out last time.

This go around, I had a drunk accident and split my head open. It was a Friday, I'm sure, because my buddy Stan had won a track meet or something. But since I'd take any excuse to celebrate with booze, I was all over the place.

While brushing my teeth and mulling the situation, I sort of smirk to myself; thinking of the comedy of the night in whole. Standing on top of a flimsy wooden bench propped up on a mountain cliff, I remember flipping the moon off and calling it all sorts of things.

Kyle, god bless his heart, was the only sober one of the three of us, and he was busy trying to pull Stan away from the driver's wheel.

"Fuck you, moon! Wh- what's your game anyway…" I remember slurring, with a bottle still in my hand. I was piss drunk, free of all responsibilities, and I couldn't be happier. With the small price of rotting my liver, I was allowed to be rid of my condition and just enjoy myself.

Naturally, I'm a reckless kid. But when I'm boozed up everything just seems… Better. Sugar coated; the sweet fucked up vision of scotch gave me a sense of peace. Like I was whole and giddy.

But fuck that, right? I collapsed forward, tripping over the small barrier used to keep people _from falling_, and plunge to the bottom of the dirt, landing head-first into a rock and sending my brains everywhere.

"Oh my god, they Killed Kenny!"

_Oh god, spare me._

I spit the mint toothpaste out into the sink, running my tongue along my teeth and feeling the spaces where two of them used to be. Without looking up into the mirror, I return to my room and look for something to wear. After I scrape together some not-too-dirty-looking pieces of clothing, I gather the assigned, untouched papers and stuff them in my backpack.

* * *

I never bother to look for a mirror, because I'll know what I'll see; a lanky, pale blonde with missing teeth and a naturally arrogant look.

It's not like I try to come off as some sort of douche-bag, but I always seem to pull it off. I'll admit—I'm a pervert and an asshole, but no douchebag. People say it's the way I walk, that since I stroll around with a serene sort of smile plastered onto my face that I must be full of myself.

I should be offended by this, and maybe I am to some point. But I can't argue it, I do look pretty cocky sometimes. Hell, though, it's not like I can do anything about it. So I smile most of the time, that's not so much of a bad thing right? I bet I'd look a lot weirder if my tall body tried to hunch down and stare at the floor while walking down the hallway. At least I can carry myself in a decent way.

Mostly, I'm only forced to look at myself 3 times a day. Once in the morning, zipping up my orange parka and checking the mirror to make sure I looked presentable. Maybe I'd run by a reflective surface at school, and have a quick glance at myself. And, if I make it to that time of night, I'd examine my bare body before and after taking a shower; tracing faded scared that only I could seem to explain.

You don't really understand; I really fucking hate looking at myself. My freckles piss me off. My un-fitting, wide blue eyes piss me off. My figure pisses me off. And my hands most definitely pisses me the hell off. They're boney, like the rest of me, but they are so _rough. _ I feel like they're the only things that really define my never-ending stomachache that was life. Calluses covered my fingertips, and they were usually a burning red. You know; the type of burning that leaving you folding and unfolding your palms because it's so uncomfortable.

So if I can help it, I don't look at myself and I make sure others can't see the majority of me. When I was younger, I'd completely let my infamous orange jacket swallow me whole, leaving only a small space for my eyes to peer out of.

I grew out of that stage eventually, but never stopped loathing the look I get from others. The look that says "Wow, look at that obnoxious poor kid." And "at least I'm not him."

Fuck that. Fuck all of the people who think of me like that.

But I try not to get too mad about it; if it was their fault for bring judgmental pricks, I'd be a huge dick to every person I've ever fucking came in contact with. But I've come to terms that everybody is a judgmental prick in their own way, and I leave it at that.

I stare at my door before I leave for the bus stop, and begin lecturing myself, "This is Kenny McCormick." I have to mutter "Anonymous cockroach. You like sex, beer, smoking, and the occasional drug party.", I'm having to adapt to what I can only explain to you as a sort of identification crisis.

* * *

I'm certain that my blonde hair follows me wherever I go, and sometimes I wonder if it's the same for the rest of my body. Do my scars just disappear, replaced by the others that have been inflicted on me? I'm not sure, but I know that my same voice, save the redneck accent, is what I hear when I shriek for mercy in another suspected body.

"GOD, PLEASE!" My eyes nailed to the ground and my face dry with being used to unheard begging. I can't look up, not being seemed fit to look upon a human. "please.. Have mercy.." My voice is quivered, as I'm yanked to my feet and pushed from my living space.

I'm dragged down the same dirt covered corridor, lined with the other performers. Some are smiling, some are sleeping, and the others are weeping in sheer agony. They call for me (_"angel boy, angel boy, look this way!"_), But I don't look up; I never look up. If I do, I'll meet the stares of the 'masters', and they'll make me pay for daring to gaze at them

The air reeks of urine and body odor, some of them splashing around in waste buckets. I can't see it, but I can smell it. I know how they are. Cracked smiles are pressed up against the bars, as the corner of my eye catches one of them. She—_it _spit at my boss, provoking a harsh scold and what I can only assume is an arrogant chuckle. They'll pay for that.

I near the center ring, the vibrating of cheers making a lump form in my throat.

The lights are blinding.

My constrained hands lead me to lose my ability to carry my starved body, as I crash to my knees. My cries have fallen silent, because by this point, I've been smeared with bitter defeat. The sound of thousands of people ogling at me fills the large arena, with "ohhs", "ahhs", and a couple of _"My lord, it's the angel!"_. Their shrieks almost drown out the cocky voice of my superior, but not quite.

As chains are clanked around my ankles, I hear him lean over to his coworker and hissing, "Make sure the mess is cleaned up by the end of intermission, huh?". I know what he's talking about and I clench my teeth. I'm panting, on the edge of puking my nervous guts out , but I don't. I never do. Because if I do, that bile will become my dinner for the night as a punishment.

The sound of the audience makes me want to rip my ears out. Their excited cheers are not from admiration or love; but of pure distain.

I only leave myself to try and focus on my clothes, worn and dirty. But, the smirk I try to force falls dry. The comedy of the whole situation, I remind myself, is the night in whole. How are things going to end this time? Aw man, it's great.

I get my head split open.

I dance my eyes around my torn outfit, but am surprised to see it's not the usual primary colours decorating it. Instead, I was dressed in a violet textile, with neon green circled dotted all over. Skin tight, it made it easy for me to feel a heavy type of cape draped on my back, striking me in an all too familiar sense.

"_Please, not this... Don't take this, too."_ I silently hoped, feeling my sanity crumble as I crouch down to the ground further. My lips meet the dirt, with my grossly wet face trying to choke out a hoarse scream, but to no avail.

Screaming is a human benefit.

Paint is cracked across my face, probably not cleaned up from the time before. I feel its weight caked on my face, seeping into my skin. The air hits it, as I feel a cheap re-application. The design they've put on me this time is a mystery, and I'm not really sure I want to know, but my back heaves up and down as I'm comforted by the same thought-

"_**TONIGHT-!"**_

My heart drops, and I howl in desperation. The night has begun, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

There never is.


	2. Reykjavik

A/N: I had two chapters haha~

**A/N: Rated M for blood and gross shit, and maybe the language. My interpretation of a circus freak might be way off (and I know it is haha), but I just did this for fun~ So if there are any inaccuracies, I know about them too~**

**Thanks for reading!**

* * *

_Can I even complicate your breathing?_  
_I guess I'm just your average boy _  
_This is me with a knife in the back _  
_And a grip on the grass _  
_It's cold and I don't want to be here_  
_I guess I'm never comfortable or situational_

_((yeah boy and doll face- Pierce the Veil))_

* * *

Thoughts are broken by Cartman's shrill voice. "Whatever, Kyle!" He whines, as the motor of our school bus approaches. They always take the sweet, precious time out of every morning to bitch at each other. And trust me, there's _always_ something to fight about with Kyle and Cartman. Stan and I usually just play witness, one of us chiming in every so often with a "shut the fuck up, fatass" or a simple "nuh-uh."

The wheels squeak to a stop, as we all climb on. Though I spend most of my time with those guys, I always prefer to sit alone on the bus. If sleep had slipped through my fingers the night before, I try again. If I'm rested enough, I stare out of the frosty window and watch as snow flicks itself on the glass, only to melt into tiny droplets of water. The innocent, yet annoying-as-fuck laughter of kids in the vehicle plays a faded smile on my face.

I lean my head against the shaking frame, letting it rattle my skull and tickle my ears. The small smile starts to bare teeth, and it isn't long before I was at utmost tranquility with myself.

It's mornings like this one that make the whole day slug by in the most pleasant way. These days are rare, so when I'm more calm and quiet, people are bound to notice.

"**Kenny, are you stoned?"**

"**Dude, you're baked like a cake aren't you?"**

"**Holy shit, man, you're giving me a contact high"**

What assholes. I mean, I know it's all in good fun, and I even snicker at it because it sounds so like me. It's such a Kenny-ish thing to do; show up to school high and smile like a dork all day. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I use my good mood to shake them off, and they eventually shut up.

But something was so.. so… So _juvenile_ about my joking. I've never let it dig deep into my brain, but I'm smart enough to know what's going on. I'm a fucking _peace. _And let me tell you how weird that is in all actuality:

Story time.

I've been shot, burned, stabbed, blown up, drowned, and even crushed to death. The feelings are there, I know what a blade to the heart feels like. But I never truly remember because I'm too busy being a kid to give a shit. I've watched as my friends make complete asses of themselves while I rot on hospital bed. I -in every sense of the word- have suffered. Yet I'm the messy haired, cocky bastard that stands before you today.

They say that when a woman gives birth, she forgets all the pain of child labour.

Could that be the same thing, kinda? How, just not 2 days ago, I was sobbing and rolling in my own defecation, begging to Satan to take me away and damning the lord's name.. But now here I am, playing paper football with Clyde and splitting a soda with Token.

I've never really seen this part (the type of denial) being a curse, in fact the closest I have to a blessing. I'm able to glance to the side, shrugging off my other problem and just dealing with the memorization of Europe's capitals for a test next period. I'll flunk, obviously, but it's so _fun _to be able to sit and laugh when I forget a name, or replace it with a word that's completely off and sending the whole lunch table into a fit of laughter.

It makes me feel **human.**

So incredibly and utterly _human_.

Nothing is better than reminding yourself that you were given the time of day by another human being, who has their own free will, and being called a friend. It makes me wish I was less accident prone.

But hey, shit happens.

* * *

I throw my head back, staring at the sun peeking through the leaves. Today was nice out—or at least, as nice as it can get for South Park—and my whole little joint-group of friends have migrated to a picnic table that is isolated outside.

Craig and his three dorks are betting to see how many pieces of cheesy poofs Clyde can catch in his mouth (spoiler alert, zero), while Butters and Kevin talk innocently about vacations they'd like to take in the future. Stan and Kyle are playing with the idea of college ever so vaguely, while Cartman stuffs his face with a Snicker's ice-cream and making noises I suspect can only be compared to a moose having an abortion.

These are the days that make it all seem worth it.

"Kenny?" a twitchy voice calls for me. I return my head to earth level, to see Tweek waiting for an answer.

"Capital of Iceland—" he taps the paper in his hand, reminding me that he was helping me study.

"w..reck-havoc…" I sound it out, My voice working its way around the word "Reykjavik"

"Close enough.." he mutters, taking a sip from his thermos as he clutches the study papers. "And Germany?"

"Aushwitz?"

"Dude…"

"I tried my best."

As Tweek states the correct answer, ("Berlin"), I've already hooked my hands on the wooden bench, flinging myself back and staring at the clear blue sky that pokes past the tree.

This is pretty gay sounding, but the sky is fucking amazing. It's absolutely endless… and that's terrifying. But, that's second most beautiful thing I've ever laid my eyes on.

Speaking of which—"So Kenny you going over to your herpes-girl's house tonight?" I hear cartman butt into my peaceful monologue. Eyes follow his question, and soon a couple of other guys are waiting for an answer.

"Fuck you. She does not have herpes." I flatly say, all amusement wiped from my voice. I could put up with most things Cartman shit out of his mouth, but this was something I would not let him rip on. That tub of lard was just aching to piss me off, but he wasn't going to dull my sparkle today. Seriously, up his. I'll be happy if I want to.

"oh-hoo sor-ree" he over exaggerates a defensive position with his arms. "watch out guys", he chuckles, "he's on his period or something"

Luckily for me, this makes nobody laugh. They all look at Cartman plainly, and some of them just roll their eyes. But since I'm feeling pretty good about myself, I'm nice enough to answer the question. "I'm heading over there on Saturday" I start, "Her parents are out of town."

"ohhhh man!" Clyde cries, leaning in closer and curling his lips into a smile "Kenny my man, you are livin' the life" he tells me. Craig pulls him back down, not showing a bit of interest as usual. He shrugs, and gives me a half-assed thumbs up. He turns back to Tweek, and shakes his head at the behavior of Clyde. The two share a laugh before Tweek scoots the black-haired boy his thermos and craig takes a drink, only shuddering from the raw taste of straight coffee

Believe it or not, the table is quick to drop the discussion on my later plans. It is no secret I have a girlfriend, it is no secret we are sexually active, and there is no secret I really love her. And no, I don't plan to fuck her contrary to popular belief.

What is a secret, however, is why I'm actually visiting her.

* * *

Again, fuck what I plan. I just had to go and fall over come railing and crack my head like an egg, huh? Ugh. No matter, though, I guess.

Something that gives me a break with this is the fact that my time isn't consistent. Say, if I die in south park and head to my other life, and stay there for 2 weeks, maybe 3 days have passed since anyone in the hick town has seen my face.

And.. This past time was a fucker. Almost a month before I'm taken back to my reckless teenage body.

"**TONIGHT-!"**

My heart drops, and I howl in desperation. The night has begun, and there's nothing I can do to stop it.

There never is.

**"Come from far, some from wide, the attraction you're all here to see!"** His voice is quick paced, fulfilling the excitement of the crowd.

**"Join us this fine evening as we explore the spine chilling mystery…"**

He slings his arm up, showcasing me. A blue light is aimed directly at my curled up body, as the chanting revs even louder.

"… **OF **_**DEATH**_**!"**

I let out another rash shriek, begging for mercy one last time. I manage to pull my dirty face from the ground, throwing it back and staring up. The manner I did it was something that should have made me laugh at the comedy of it all; I half expected to see the sun playing hide and seek with me through the leaves.

But, held above my head is a massive blade, aching to fall and let its weight sink into my skull.

"**and the Miracle" **he starts again, pausing for dramatic effect.

"**OF **_**RESSURECTIOOOOON!"**_

My cries are muted by the cluster of anticipated crying of watchers. The sound is so ear-poppingly booming that the speaker is allowed to drag out the last syllable. I faintly hear his boots against the dirt as he nears me and busts my back with his foot, sending me back to my crouched over state.

"_**The boy before you, you know him, yes?**_

_**Of course you do, he was here last night**_

**And the night before!"**

I just want to go home…

"_**He is a prime example of how every sinner has its pay—**_

_**Ripped from the warm embrace of his mother"**_

Warm embrace… The scent of alcohol on my mother.

"_**Thrown into the streets with nothing but clouds as his friends!"**_

The yellow glow of the sun in the cloudless sky, with all of my friends. Tweek quizzing me on Europe's capitals…

I can't pronounce Reykjavik.

"_**Weak limbs that he cannot even carry…"**_

Says my busted head, and my drunk stagger of a walk.

"_**Sometimes, his tongue calls out for his mother's hold, begging for god to let him go!"**_

God.. Did he do this to me? Surely not.. I've met him. and I've met Satan. But this is something beyond evil.

"_**ah, yes, the one. The only."**_

A hand is ran through my hair and I'm pulled up. His eyes pierce me, but I stare back with what life force I have left. The chaos humming around me eggs me on, daring me to fight for my life. But it's pointless. It's all pointless here…

His eyes are wild, influenced by the animal-like wailing of his watchers.

"_**The Real. Life. Angel!"**_

I just...

I just want to die.

But what good would that do now?

* * *

The first thing I feel is a strange comfort. Like water. I don't bother to really open my eyes, but I moan.

"Ken..?" I hear a timid voice. The wetness returns to my forehead, as I roll my head and grumble in pain. My headache is a fucking bitch.

"Tamh… Tammy?" I manage to stammer out of my mouth, forcing my eye lids open just enough to see her. She smiles weakly, "don't talk too much. You drank yourself stupid last night.."

I grin back at her, closing my eyes as she douses a rag with warm water and brushes back my bangs. She places the rag on my forehead, and I can hear the gentle clanking of her many bracelets. Then the scent of her perfume washed over me, and finally the pure composure I find in her presence. I'm completely overwhelmed, and without another word I sink into another sleep.

"Oh Kenny,…" I hear someone murmur softly,

"… I've missed you so much."


End file.
